Face to Face
by Mystic Deadman
Summary: Justification can take one's actions beyond the Point of No Return.
1. Chapter 1

**This story was inspired by something I noticed about a particular character. Now, let me get this out of the way. I've never actually played NMH, but I've watched a few playthroughs enough times to notice a small detail about one of the boss fights and wondered if there was something to it. Consider this both practice at getting into someone's head and working out a potential backstory.**

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><p>The main office of Dr. Timothy Tucker sat in time rather peacefully, an oddity for a town as "fucked up," as one of his colleagues so eloquently articulated, as Santa Destroy. For a few minutes, only the dull droning of a small desk clock permeated the silence. The psychologist in question sat in the only chair in the room, a red notepad in one hand and a red pen in the other. A rather luxurious, leather piece that would make anyone who sat in it know true comfort and bliss. At least, until said psychologist kicked you out and onto the cheap sofa that was reserved for his clients.<p>

Speaking of which, his latest client lay on said sofa, creating the stereotypical ambiance one would usually see in a movie. The client, however, was probably one he could've done without.

A young girl, seemingly in her early twenties, stared at the ceiling from the cushions of the sofa. When he first saw her, he mentally questioned her attire. After all, you _never_ verbally question the trivial things with someone who was sent to you via the legal system. What the hell was she doing here, anyway? Shouldn't she be rotting behind bars until her impending execution if the file he'd been given about her was anywhere _near_ accurate?

Nope. Compared to questions like that, the fact that she wore a pink frilled, thigh-length dress with a large bow in the back, thigh-length socks, brown gloves (what the hell?) and pink pumps to a psychiatric evaluation was pretty well down there on the priority ladder.

All of that was lost on the girl, though, as her piercing grey eyes continued to burn a figurative hole in the ceiling above her. As she lie there, only a single thought crossed through her mind.

_Fuck. I need a beer._


	2. Chapter 2

Another minute of peaceful silence passed. Silence ticked away by the clock on the desk. Silence that allowed Dr. Tucker to rest quietly. Silence that allowed...

_Fuck!_

...his latest patient to lament her forced detachment from anything remotely alcoholic in nature. Hell, during her short stay in prison, she wasn't allowed anywhere _near_ grapes. Grapes! The young girl mentally scoffed. As if she had the kind of time she'd need to let them ferment.

Then again, prison _did_ give people plenty of time, if nothing else.

She crossed her hands over her abdomen and slowed her breathing. A little trick she'd picked up to help her deal with times like these. Namely, times of alcohol deprivation.

Or times when random fuckers decide to try and write out a back story for her.

"Pop quiz." She said suddenly. To anyone who knew didn't know any better, she almost sounded like a school teacher. "Why am I such an angry bitch?"

Dr. Tucker didn't answer. Not that the girl gave him a chance.

"Seriously. No matter how many I kill, it's all the same. They're all going to pay. Yeah, with their _fucking_ _lives._"

Anyone who happened to overhear the monologue (if it could be called one) would have wondered why the girl hadn't been institutionalized, or euthanized, yet. Anyone other than Dr. Tucker, that is. The psychologist simply let her continue.

The girl offered a small smile. "Like that? I've been practicing. Gotta have something that gets into the minds of overconfident little shits when they come around." She turned her head to regard Tucker. "And trust me; they _do_ come around.

"You see, I'm in this little organization that calls itself the United Assassins Association. That's 'UAA' for the dipshits out there who prefer their acronyms to actually saying the fucking words. Anyway, they like to rank all the members of their organization with some kind of stupid-ass arbitrary system. They plugged me into their calculators and decided that I'm the second best assassin in the world. Whatever the fuck that means.

"Anyway, every now and then some upstart little spitfuck decides that _they_ want to be the second best in the world and come bug me about it. After a nice little conversation between me, him and my best friend Louis, we decide that it's best that he disappear and not bother anyone else."

Dr. Tucker sat in his chair, unfazed by his patient's words. Little expositions like these were the kinds of things you hear on an alarmingly regular basis, after all.

"I swear to God," She continued. "If another _fucktard_ decides to try and take me down, I'm going to make him, his mother and the entire goddamn _town_ he lived in disappear." More silence passed, allowing the girl to take in more calming breaths. "In nice leather masks. I could use some practice with my swings, anyway."

The good Doctor shifted slightly. This new charge's words were a little...unsettling...to say the least. As much as he may have wanted to do so, he didn't ask a single question. If his years in this profession taught him anything, it was that it was best to let these crazies vent over whatever they needed to vent about.

And this particular crazy had _much_ she needed to vent about.

"So," the girl said. "You're probably wondering how I got here, instead of being fried like a chicken in some stuffy white room. I'll be honest; I have no idea. I guess the pussy in the black robe that heard my case probably thought that since this was my first conviction, I could probably be saved and change my life or some shit. Here's a clue: when you get into my line of work, there's no going back. There's no 'saving', or 'helping', or 'rescuing'. Once you're in, you're in for the whole right down the Highway to Hell.

"But," she continued. "You've gotta look at it this way: we're in the service of helping people. We just don't take the pussy approach of following laws or whatever."

For the first time since the girl entered his office, Dr. Tucker's pen met with paper, tracing red lines across the white parchment.

"We sometimes get paid to do the stupid shit, like getting rid of husbands or wives or flunkies. That crap's hardly worth it sometimes. Other times, we get paid to off political bastards that are running countries in to the ground or some shit. Best example? President Caldwell. Bitch was much too soft about handling the fuck-ups that mess with our beauti-fucking-ful country. Now, we've got Vice President Reed running thing much more smoothly. See how well that worked out?"

The pen stopped scratching the paper. Dr. Tucker would have _loved_ to point out that it was _because_ of VP Reed that places like Santa Destroy even existed, but again, prior experience told him to shut up.

"Anyway, I feel like I have to apologize to you, Doc. I don't normally curse this much. It just kinda slips out whenever I'm stressed. Or go long periods of time without a fucking drink. Whichever comes first."

Dr. Tucker relaxed in his seat a bit. So she was stressed. That meant that there might be a way to calm her down.

"I bet you're wondering how I got here. I mean, other than the obvious-as-fuck legal system. Well..." The girl took a deep breath. "I guess it all started back before I was born, really..."


	3. Chapter 3

_Why am I here?_

The question ran through Dr. Turner's head as he continued to sit in fearful silence before the young woman sprawled out on the couch.

"Say, doc." She said, turning to face him and letting an arm dangle from the edge. "You wouldn't happen to have anything to drink that's age restricted, wouldja?"

What was this? Was she actually asking him a question, rather than practicing a monologue so cheesy he could swear he could make a nice chip dip out of?

"Uh..." An excellent first word spoken to his latest psych...patient. "No, sorry. I'm not one for drinking."

"Shit." The girl uttered under her breath as she looked away with rolling eyes. "Can't catch a fucking break anywhere, can I?"

Now to prove that he had a pair on him, and that she didn't intimidate him in the slightest. "You know, I would imagine that, considering the situation you're in, you'd be a little more worried about getting through this as quickly as possible."

The girl turned to him again, this time with an eyebrow raised in amusement. Dr. Turner slightly shifted in his chair, hoping that she didn't notice him do it.

"Well," She said in amusement. Oh, she knew. "Look at the balls on this guy. Thinkin' he can tell me whatever the fuck he wants. Didn't get a good read of my file, didja?"

"Alls I'm sayin' is that it would be in your best interest that you complete this course. After all, which sounds more appealing to you; a lifetime in prison because I tell the court you're competent to stand trial, or walking away because I tell them you're as out of place as batshit? And twice as insane?"

If Dr. Tucker could take her for anything...well, to be honest, he wouldn't. He wouldn't touch her with a ten-_mile_ pole. But, if he had to place a bet about her, 'idiot' would not be where he'd put his money. It took her half a second for her to take a breath, process the thought and come up with a conclusion.

"So, I tell you about me. I tell you what makes me tick. I let you into my fucked up world, and you tell the court I'm a Fuckedup McDipshit and that I should walk?"

"Maybe not walk, but at least get you into a stable environment. After that, you're free to do whatever you can."

"Alright then." The girl straightened back up and folded her hands across her abdomen again. "So, where should we start?"

"Well," Dr. Tucker answered. "Normally we'd pick up where you left off and go into your childhood, but I didn't even catch your name. How about we start there?"

"Name's on my file."

Time to let 'em grow. "I got that. 'Bad Girl'. I was hoping I could get the name you had before that one."

Bad Girl smirked a bit. "Real name, huh? Been a while. Gonna have to think about it."

"Take your time." And no, he wasn't being sarcastic.

After a few moments in clock-droned silence, she finally spoke. "Gracie."

"Gracie?" A pen scrawling across paper accompanied the question.

Bad Girl nodded. "Gracie Lou Freebush."

Now, Dr. Turner may not have been the most up-to-date person in the world, but he knew sarcasm when he heard it.

"Yes, I liked that movie too. What about your name?"

Bad Girl chuckled a little. "Damn. Kinda hoping you were too stupid to catch that. Alright. My name's Lynn."

"Am I getting a real name this time?"

"Yeah. Lynn...well, Lynnette."

Dr. Turner scratched out the movie reference on his notepad and wrote down what he needed. The fact that she didn't give him a last name didn't bother him that much. A first name was all he needed to make her a little more human.

"Alright then, Lynn...is it alright if I call you that?" A silent nod answered his question. "Lynn. How about we get back to where you left off. How did life before you lead to you laying on my sofa?"

Whatever semblance of a smile that graced Bad Girl's features vanished. She took another deep breath.

_Fuck. If I'd known I'd be doing so much breathing, I'd have brought a fucking fan._

"Right. Guess we'd better stop spending an entire chapter stalling and get on with it..."


End file.
